


dancing to a temporary tune

by agayhurricane



Series: how fleeting we could get [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, M/M, Unresolved Emotional Tension, but the local salty writer's seat was up for grabs so i took it, i wanted to be a sweet and wholesome writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agayhurricane/pseuds/agayhurricane
Summary: It's a surprise, to say the least, to find out that of all people, it's Russia's Ice Tiger that would be the key to his downfall.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Lot of thoughts of them pair skating and practicing. Also, fun fact, I still might edit this so... Stay tuned, I guess?
> 
> Edit: I have added a teeny bit more and now I could say that I am satisfied- was it noticeable? :^)
> 
> Also, for clarification's sake:  
> Yuri- 18  
> Viktor- 26

Double rows of spotlights hang above the glittering rink, their beams converging on almost the same point way below. Soft music begins to play; it’s a familiar tune, and once the bass pulses through the speakers, the lone figure below glides into action.

His movements are fluid and every wave, gesture and flick of his hands and arms are expressive. They are sure to tug on heartstrings had this been watched by a dedicated audience. But it is his face that stands out most of all, not only because of its remarkable features but because of its stark contrast with his dance; it was devoid of all emotion.

His eyes, blue and blank at the same time, were evidently trapped in some other reality, far, far away. It is in that way he stays, for quite some time, until he realizes that his skates aren't the only ones scraping across the ice. Miniscule crystals fly into the air as Viktor Nikiforov skids into a halt, just a few feet in front of Russia's new skating prodigy, Yuri Plisetsky.

He stops his own routine immediately after Viktor. Yuri, who has only recently lost his childish roundness, giving way to a sharper jawline, lither muscles. His eyes are darker too—more blue than green in some lights. The calm mask of grace shifts to a more challenging visage. His expression carries a glint as he meets Viktor's gaze, one gloved hand rising to rest just above his hip. "Enjoyed your trip to space, old man?" he drawls, sounding as if he had emerged triumphant from a game. "I've been here since a while ago."

 An easy smile settles on Viktor's lips. If it's about putting on masks, then it was something that he was definitely more than capable of. With the smoothness of someone who has it as a second nature, he lets his facade slip on. "Is that so?" he asks, with perfect innocence, skating over to the edge of the rink, where he left the remote control for the speakers. He picks it up, without rush and the rink goes quiet at the press of a button. "I'm afraid I didn't notice."

The way Yuri glowers doesn't escape him. "Not like it matters now, does it?" he says with a bit more venom than Viktor would've done. And almost as if he senses the mistake, he drops his stare and the intensity of it alone could've melted the ice.

Viktor clicks his tongue as he pockets the remote, heading over to Yuri. “You don’t surprise me,” he says casually. From the corner of his eye, he watches Yuri’s face go from shock to anger in quick succession, teeth showing as he tries to rein in his temper.  They both were aware of what he was thinking; coming from a man who lived to surprise, this was the closest Viktor could get without directly spitting an insult in his face. Unbothered, he sidles a bit closer, near enough for Yuri to touch if he wished. He presses a finger to the corner of his mouth in mock thought, "But I must ask: Why that tone, Yura?" And he adds, just because he knew it would get under his skin: "Is it because you were you vying for my atten-"

" _I wasn't_." he snaps.

Viktor's smile widens. "Really? Because for a minute there, you almost sounded defensive."

Yuri bristles, cheeks flaring up and Viktor wonders offhandedly, how it would be like to place his hands on them. To have their heat seep through his gloves until he felt it himself, on his face, their distance growing ever smaller-

Viktor.  And then, with more urgency, an angry hiss dashed with the subtlest hint of panic: " _Viktor_."

For the second time that afternoon he comes to a realization and it's in the form of Yuri's fierce eyes, staring up directly into his, too few inches away.

The change in temperature is drastic and it takes a blink for the moment of tension to be set aside as an afterthought. Viktor’s teeth clamp down on his lower lip as he takes a breath, savors it and lets it go. Yuri's eyelashes flutter at the small puff of air and Viktor thinks about how he'd like this very moment to be their secret, encapsulated permanently in small picture frames of memory, for him to come back to someday, when all this has been reduced to an old fever dream.

The spell passes just as quickly as it had come, and soon Yuri's wrenching himself away from his grip, like a tiger stalking back to the confines of the ring as if nothing had happened. As he watches him, Viktor finds it a good thing that in this mad circus, he's the one wearing the ringmaster's hat.

Regaining composure, he forces a chuckle past his lips and even to him it sounds alien. "You're still as sensitive as ever," he says with an offhand shake of his head.

Yuri turns back to glare at him but before he could so much as breathe out a snarky response, Viktor cuts in. "And I don't mean it in a bad way." He does a lazy circle around the rink, still musing." You know how the audience loves a little bit of..." he trails off and that's when the idea strikes him like lightning. An offer. That was what he needed. An offer he knew that Yuri would be helpless against.

"A bit of what?" Yuri is tense, having been so thoroughly flustered and it is evident in the way his voice suddenly sounds tight, like he was hesitant to hear the answer. But he pushes past the fear, baring himself to the risks, and Viktor senses it in the way his shoulders set, defiant of whatever his mentor may throw at him. "Tell me, Viktor."

That tenacity of his is what he loves most about him.

The answer leaves Viktor's tongue formed partway, completed only by the blaze he saw in Yuri's eyes. "Vulnerability."

Viktor leans down his face up against Yuri's, inches away again, although this time, the decision is deliberate, an unspoken test. “Do you think you could do that, Yura?"

A charged silence passes and then, it is Yuri who laughs, a gasp of air that sounds almost half mad. His hair falls past his forehead in a pale golden cascade, and when he looks up, Viktor feels his chest clench. The prince of grace and elegance was the Yuri the masses admired and praised from the stands but _this_ Yuri, up close, all raw power and ferocity, this was the tiger that Viktor was sure few could see. And taunting him, daring him to reach even further than his claws could past the ring, revealed a beauty that he was sure Yuri didn't know of himself, not yet. The feeling of pushing him past his very limits was exhilarating.

 _That's what I'm here for_ , he thinks. _Would you be willing to hand yourself over to me_?

When he responds, it meets Viktor where he is, halfway through the point of discovery and uncertainty: “You know I could.”

He smiles, genuine this time and knows that, in some way, both of them have won. He slips into Russian as he says quietly: “ _I know all too well, Yuratchka_.”

***

Viktor didn't allow for that statement to sink in and then all too suddenly, mischief overtakes him and he has an arm slung around Yuri, too casual for friends too distant for... for whatever. If there were any labels, Viktor wasn't keen on acknowledging them. "I believe that this is the first time we've ever come to a unanimous agreement!" he says and hopes to himself that it wouldn't be the last.

Yuri tries to shrug him off and fails. It was a blink-and-you'd miss it moment, when he stops resisting and allows himself to relax, slowly, like melting ice against Viktor's side. "Maybe it's 'cause it's the first time you've offered," he grumbles, "To do something that isn't basic practice."

"Now, now, Yuri," he chides, donning his best coach voice. "Surely you know that all your training thus far has been anything but basic."

“Does it look like I care?” Yuri rolls his eyes. "Whatever you wanna call it, old man, it's getting boring real quick."

“You wound me, Yuri,” Viktor pouts, putting a hand over his heart. “I’m not that much older than you are.”

“You’re a whole decade older than I am.”

“Eight years, two months,” Viktor corrects indignantly.

Yuri elbows him in the ribs, none too lightly. “I wasn’t asking, _old man_.”

Viktor couldn’t be annoyed. Not after seeing the smile tugging the corner of his lips, ever so slightly like he was trying so hard to keep a front. He doesn't miss the hesitant hand that wraps around his wrist either, nor the opportunity to wrap his fingers around it. They slide against Yuri's pale ones easily almost as if they were supposed to be there. It was a ridiculous idea, he knew, but it was one that he couldn't easily shake off, especially with how he could feel Yuri's warmth through the soft barrier of his gloves. Just like he had imagined.

Viktor hums out his reply instead and guides his prodigy to the center of the rink, where he goes as far as to brush his lips across his covered knuckles. Looking up at him through his silvered lashes, he says softly, "Anytime you're ready." He spins him around in a small circle, suggesting too much with the way his palm trails down from his wrist to the curve of his hips, and holds him, gingerly against him. It was unnecessary and yet…From here, he could feel the deep gasps Yuri gulps in and suddenly, he is still. The calm before the storm.

Then he reaches around Viktor, to his back pocket, where he searches for the sleek outline of the remote and presses. The music restarts, the same one that Viktor had been skating to earlier and he has to make an effort to not let a smirk show on his face. Having his own music used against him; it was a genius that one could only expect from the best. The beginnings of a cool, smooth rhythm slither through the air. Viktor whispers into it, right on the beat where the words begin. _You want a challenge, Yura_? _Then I'll give you one_.

"Impress me."

Yuri's eyes flash, a glimmer of acceptance. "Damn right I would."

In the next moments that follow, Yuri proves himself one of the elite-- and maybe even better. The blades of his skates scrape on the ice as he resists the momentum Viktor has set for him, going against the direction he has spun him to. He grips both his hands instead, like a lifeline and allows his eyes to fall half shut before slowly, _ultimately_ dragging his palms up his chest. Viktor inhales so sharply he could swear there was a knife that stabbed trough his lungs but there is no turning back. After all, both of them _need_ this, Yuri for the sake of developing his raw skill and him for-

"You still there, Vitya?" Yuri's fingertips ghost over his peeking collarbones and Viktor follows them unknowingly, swallowing back a jab he doesn't want to admit to thinking. But it slips through his grasp, regardless. He tilts Yuri's chin up and finds himself saying, "Is this all you have, Yuri?"

Yuri's teeth set, and Viktor feels not the slightest bit apologetic. Always pushing and prodding, an endless cycle set in flames to reach that level of perfection that even he has barely held on to. He jerks his face away. "You know well that it isn't," he hisses and Viktor waits, expectant as Yuri grabs him by the collar but pulls away at the last possible moment, his grin nothing short of devilish.

He laughs, brief and disbelieving as Yuri glides away nimble as a sprite, without as much as a second glance. "You _bastard_ ," he calls after him with a shake of his head. "That's cheating."

"It's my fucking revenge," Yuri fires back, without any real spite.

He sounds distracted, Viktor considers, and figures that it's because he isn't here anymore, not really. His mind was beginning to wander elsewhere, his body taking over; more muscle memory and less thought process. It scares him a bit, somehow, because this is how it was like for him, so long ago. His resolve hardening before him, he vows right then and there to not let Yuri spiral down that path, not ever, not under his watch. Yuri was his as much as he belonged to him, unspoken though it was. Watching him get better and better with every jump and every fall was more fulfilling than having any glittering medal hanging less like a reward and more of a shackle around his neck.

He is making his way back to him now, his eyes half shut again, a sort of faint, trancelike glaze to them and he almost doesn't recognize him. Then and there, Lilia's lessons resurface when he least expects it; he had them tucked in some neglected corner of his mind not imagining he would need it again one day.

 _That’s right, dance with beauty_ , Lilia had said, clapping her hands to a rhythm Viktor strove to keep up with, all those years ago.

He struggles now, too, feeling anything but _right_ as he wishes it was with the rhythm of the music he were struggling with instead of the racing of his heart. He watches as Yuri lands a flawless quad Salchow, a few feet away and it only goes faster.

 _Beauty is a crushing form of righteousness_.

He sees it when he catches Yuri's outstretched hand, joking fully set aside now. He pulls him towards him again as the music soars, his grip firm and certain unlike before. Unwavering. Protective. It tightens further as Viktor lifts him up, palms landing on his shoulders as he steadies himself. His arms do not tremble even as Viktor sets him back on his feet. They collide in an embrace, and by then Viktor has his form memorized, mapping out every edge, every curve, every bend of lithe muscle like a tragedy waiting to take place. Yuri allows Viktor to dip him, down and down, fingers curling up as he supports him, on his thigh, on the curve of his spine. They are close, very close. His hair falls on his now shut eyelids, silver against pale gold.

 _Strength means nothing_ —

The speakers begin to fall quiet, but neither of them rush. The music's steadily quieting rhythm pulses through the both of them as they move in sync, complementing each other in their unprecedented dance.  All of a sudden Viktor is drawing him up, but still he doesn't break. There is not a hint of a gasp or a curse contorting his face like it normally would have like before, in all those play practices that were lit only by the fading light of the sun filtering through the dirty, snow smudged glass.

— _Without beauty_.

A lump bobs on the pale column of Yuri’s throat as he gasps for air and Viktor has to hold himself back. Now Yuri's eyes open all the way, the edges gone from his face, his labored breathing fogging in the cold air on the ice. The sunset fights against the false light of the rink and he is lit in shades of orange and white all at once.

Tentatively still, Yuri creeps his touch behind Viktor's neck, carding his fingers through his hair. Entranced, Viktor allows himself to lose a battle, the first one in a long time as he returns the gesture, reaching a hand up, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw as he tucks Yuri's hair behind his ear. It has grown longer and at this rate it’ll eventually become very much like Viktor’s ten long years ago. The very idea was something Viktor couldn’t help but look forward to.

Yuri purrs, an unexpected sound. _He really is like a cat, isn't he_ , Viktor thinks, his mind a mess of _shit, shit, why are you looking at me like_ that _, like  you're so_ -

"How was I?" He appears as young as he is when he asks, snapping Viktor back. Without the pressure of being a top athlete, the expectations of so many people balancing on his shoulders, Yuri is rendered so, so _open_ , so trusting in Viktor's arms for the most fleeting of times. _Vulnerable_.

He did it again. Viktor smiles at him, fond and soft and at least twenty different shades of _proud_ , despite the hammering of his heart. He slides his hands down his arms again, pressing a feather light kiss on Yuri's forehead, on the tip of his nose.

 _A reward, perhaps?_ Viktor wonders, even as he wipes the sweat from Yuri’s brow _. Did these things need reason? When your heart is full to bursting with an emotion you couldn’t even begin to place, is justification really something to seek?_ "You did well," he whispers finally, moving to Yuri’s lips, to his mouth, his chin. "As I knew you would," His neck.

Yuri exhales, shakily, less relief and more pride. "That'll show you, asshole," he quips tiredly, tilting his head to the side, guiding Viktor's touch when he freezes for a second, asking without words, permission: Can I, _may_ I, will you let me, _just please_.

He nods his head to the words hanging unsaid in the air, the music long gone and Viktor understands. But he doesn’t press any further instead settling for a peck on the shell of his ear. A promise of _later_ that the both of them knew he wouldn’t intend to break. For now, it is his approval that he gives, his awe, never mind that he was surely getting spoiled.

"You're beautiful Yuri," he says, drowning him in the praise he so craves and deserves. It chokes Yuri, makes the words almost impossible for him to speak. A tight embrace is given instead, worth a thousand poetries and more from the way Yuri nuzzles into Viktor’s chest, like he was desperate to not let go.

Viktor returns the gesture, leaning on the top of Yuri’s head, "And you know something even better?"

Yuri lifts his gaze up to him and there are so many emotions he couldn't place; He doesn't know where to begin. He manages a couple of words before his walls come back up again, his moment of vulnerability dissipating even as they speak. "What, Vitya?"

He cups his pale face in both of his hands, leaning their foreheads together, right there in the middle of the rink, the only witness to the vows they have carved in the ice each and every time. " _You're mine_."

**Author's Note:**

> got something cool to say? leave a comment and drown me in concrit
> 
> friendly reminder that concrit is different from hate, so on that same note:
> 
> considering spitting some hate? not this fic, buddy.


End file.
